


Traveling Companions

by AkumaStrife



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seating area for their gate fills up the closer they get to boarding, so when Bruce comes back from walking off some of his nervous energy he takes the seat across from Clint. He doesn’t want to attract any more attention; hates attention and knows what thoughtless gestures will garner it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traveling Companions

**Author's Note:**

> Basically when I was waiting to get on a plane I saw these two guys and they…well they looked an awful lot like Clint and Bruce, and after I began watching them closely they wrote me this fic. No really this fic is 86% true life. They tried to hide it, _but I saw. Secret gays._
> 
> Also bonus Natasha and Thor, because I saw a tired mother with her young son

The seating area for their gate fills up the closer they get to boarding, so when Bruce comes back from walking off some of his nervous energy he takes the seat across from Clint. He doesn’t want to attract any more attention; hates attention and knows what thoughtless gestures will garner it. 

Clint immediately straightens from his slouch and rests against his knees, leans in close across the cramped aisle and smiles as he briefly knocks his knee against Bruce’s. Bruce flashes him an appreciative look and offers the yogurt-covered pretzels he’d picked up on his walk. Clint’s grin widens for no apparent reason as he shakes his head, but doesn’t put anymore space between them. They don’t talk while they wait for time to pass, Bruce nibbling on his pretzels and Clint engrossed in his phone—taking a call from Natasha and snapping screenshots of Tony’s drunken texts with glee. 

Two older ladies suddenly, and very loudly, bustle over and take seats next to them, shedding layers and bags like animals during molting season. They huff and puff and chatter away about neighborhood gossip and news from respective families. If Clint notices the way Bruce’s hands are clenched between his knees (which he surely does) he says nothing. 

One of the women, the portly one with too much make up, makes a sound of delight. “Oh goodness, young man, look at your curls!” 

Bruce tenses and looks over at her almost shyly, making sure it really is him she’s addressing. Smiling politely, he runs a hand subconsciously through his hair and mumbles his thanks. 

The woman nudges her companion, a beanpole with dissolving muscle and skin like beef jerky, and says, “Lordy, if I were young again and had beautiful curls like those.”

The other woman snorts. “Margie, the only curls you had were the ones you paid for.”

“They’re your best asset, aren’t they, Brucie?” Clint chimes in cheerfully. And Bruce wants to hit him, wants to throw him out of the window for bringing him back into the conversation.

“Oh, are you two traveling together? I hadn’t realized.”

Bruce glances at the woman out of the corner of his eye, shoulders gone rigid again. 

Clint cuts in smoothly, “Sure are.” And then, before they can jump to any conclusions, he adds, “I’m helping him move. To Brazil.”

“What a lovely friend you are! A real gem,” Margie says.

“And to Brazil! So far away,” the other says. The two continue to titter and fawn over Clint, easily taking by his charming smile and quick compliments.

For the hundredth time Bruce fingers the cuff of the suit jacket Tony gave him. He can practically feel how expensive it is, and that only serves to make him more anxious. 

Thankfully the women don’t address him again, and his heartbeat evens out. Until they begin calling for boarding. His pulse jumps, and Clint watches him carefully as he stands and slings his bag over his shoulder. After a moment he takes Bruce’s too, waving off his feeble protests as they join the line. Bruce’s gaze darts around them rapidly, flitting from person to person, always keeping all available exits within sight. Habits are hard to break.

He passes over his passport and ticket with steady hands, but the attendant still peers at him for a moment too long, well learned in the art of spotting even the most natural of suspicious persons. 

“Nervous flyer,” Clint chimes in, throwing an arm lazily over Bruce’s shoulder. “Doesn’t get out much.”

The woman smiles in understanding and hands back his papers. “Happens to the best of us. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Banner, Mr. Barton.”

They’re halfway down the jetway, Bruce unconsciously shrinking away from the walls, when Clint rests his hand on Bruce’s lower back, comforting and guiding him down the tunnel to the plane, trusting their bags to obscure the touch from view. 

“Cramming me elbow-to-elbow with a hundred other antsy people in a pressurized container miles above the ground? This is a fantastic idea,” Bruce hisses.

“Breathe,” Clint murmurs. “You have the window seat and I’ll be there as a buffer. It’s going to be fine. Just breathe.”

And Bruce does. 

* * * BONUS * * *

Natasha flips the page on her magazine. “Stop touching things, Thor.”

The Norse god just barely fits in his middle seat, and Natasha has had to remind him multiple times to keep his arms and legs within the confines of his arm rests. Thor puts the lifejacket back under his seat without a hint of guilt and smiles toothily for the thousandth time at the poor guy stuck in the aisle seat. The guy nervously smiles back and tries to hide in his book. 

“This vessel is most wondrous! Carrying so many citizens at once!”

“Yes, fantastic, remember what I said about your inside voice.”

“Of course,” Thor says, and rather than quieting his tone, ends up speaking in a very loud, obvious whisper. Natasha wonders what she did to deserve babysitting duty. 

Thor shifts and before he can even half raise his hand Natasha raps the back of his knuckles sharply and fixes him with a stern look. “Do not push the flight attendant button again. You’ve bothered them enough.”

“But they are such lovely women, beautiful and capable as Valkyries!”

“I’m sure they’re flattered, but let them do their work.” She goes back to her magazine, half focused on Thor as he looks through the emergency procedure pamphlet with confusion, turning it this way and that and upside down at one point. 

Thor may not be a child, but he is easily amused and not accustomed to sitting for long periods of time without reason. She honestly couldn’t care less, but she was ordered to not let him disturb the other passengers. 

He reaches for his seatbelt and says, “Miss Natasha, I am going to use—“

She clamps her hand around his knee, pinching hard enough around a nerve that he actually jolts. “You are not going anywhere where I can’t see you. Buckle your seat belt and stay quiet.”


End file.
